


Chaos is my Companion

by Bunnywest



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Explicit Sexual Content, Fluff and Smut, Getting Together, I Don't Even Know, Kindergarten Teacher Stiles Stilinski, Lawyer Peter Hale, M/M, Mechanic Chris Argent, OKCupid, Polyamory Negotiations, Spitroasting, Stiles is a human disaster, Threesome - M/M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-29
Updated: 2019-07-13
Packaged: 2020-05-30 20:14:25
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 16,151
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19410574
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Bunnywest/pseuds/Bunnywest
Summary: Stiles is plenty organized when it comes to important stuff like his work okay?It's just little things like finding his wallet, charging his phone, and keeping track of who the hell he has a date with that he has trouble with._____________________________________________________________Both men spot him at the same time. “Stiles?” they say in unison, and then stare at each other, looking slightly put out.“This is your date?” Peter says, a crease appearing between his brows.“Well, yeah.” (Chris, the mechanic’s name is Chris, Stiles’ mind finally supplies.)Two sets of eyes turn to him, and Stiles has a sudden sinking feeling in his gut. He remembers arranging to meet Peter, sure, but what’s Chris doing here?





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [DiscontentedWinter](https://archiveofourown.org/users/DiscontentedWinter/gifts).



> As always, written on the fly, barely edited, something for Actual Goddess DiscontentedWinter.  
> Yes, there will be another chapter.  
> No, I don't know when.  
> But as soon as I know what's happening, you'll know!

Stiles knows he’s disorganised, okay? He’s accepted it as a fundamental facet of his personality. Oh, when it comes to work or important stuff, he’s totally got it together. His lesson plans are done weeks in advance, and his kindergarten class adores him, parents and children alike. It’s just when it comes to his personal life it all falls apart.

He could blame his ADHD he guesses, but that’s not really it. Stiles just started running late sometime around his twentieth birthday, and he’s simply never caught up. His friends joke about it, call it ‘ _running on Stiles time,'_ but he knows for a fact that if they want him there at 6 they tell him 5.30, fully expecting he’ll still probably be there at 6.15.

Point being, he’s probably the worst candidate ever for this online dating caper. He has an OKCupid account, but he forgets to check it, neglects to answer the messages he gets, and generally doesn’t pay it much attention. Obviously, his subconscious rates sex as “not that important.” With all due respect to his subconscious, Stiles decides, he would like to disagree. He’s done with going home alone, going to bed alone, and waking up alone, and it’s time he did something about it.

With that in mind, he tries to be more diligent. He updates his profile and his pic, and dutifully looks through the recommendations. A couple of them actually catch his interest for a change, and wonder of wonders, they’re both a 97% match, so he sends them a reply. Nothing too specific, just a general “Hey, I saw you looking at me, hi there,” kinda thing. He’s kinda flattered when they both answer him.

He reads their profiles more carefully, trying decide who he should go with, before he shrugs and thinks what the hell, there’s no reason he can’t chat to both. Over the next couple of weeks the messages fly back and forth, and he learns that one of them’s a lawyer, and one’s a mechanic. They’re both older, which is most decidedly not an issue for him - he knew exactly what he was doing when he ticked that age bracket.

OK sure, on a couple of occasions he sends the wrong message in the wrong thread, but he laughs it off and blames his cracked phone screen, and neither of them seem to mind. Point is, three weeks, in, the lawyer starts making noises about meeting in person.

Stiles doesn’t reply right away – not because he isn’t keen, but because he has A Day From Hell at work – there’s an outbreak of gastro, and there are vomiting little folk as far as the eye can see. For a couple of hours there it’s pretty messy. Once the sick kidlets have all been packed off home, he doesn’t feel so hot himself, although he’s not sure at first if that’s just a side effect of being up close and personal with a bunch of pukemonsters. But nope, he gets home and promptly starts throwing up, and by the end of the evening he feels like he’s made of spun glass, fragile and empty. He takes a warm shower and despite the fact it’s only seven pm, he drags himself to bed after texting his boss that he’s out for the next day, and crashes hard.

He wakes at 3 am briefly, pukes one last time, and then can’t get back to sleep, so he pokes at his phone. There’s a red bubble on the dating app, so he opens it. It’s a message from Peter, asking again if he wants to meet. Stiles texts back ‘Sure,” and sends the address of the nice little Italian place three blocks over with a time for Friday night. It makes a whooshing noise as it sends, and Stiles exits out of the app and plays a game for a few minutes, before he feels his eyelids start to drag.

He doesn’t fight it, just rolls over and curls up under the blankets. He’s asleep again in minutes.

An hour and a half later, he’s awake again, still feeling decidedly green. He squints at his phone, frowning at the figures declaring it 4.40am. That’s not even a real time. He picks absently at a blob of purple finger paint that’s dried on his screen, but even that seems like too much effort with how fuzzy headed he feels. He flicks across the screen and sees a red bubble on the dating app. He opens it and peers through rheumy eyes to find a message asking if they can meet. That’s right, he thinks hazily, he was going to answer lawyer guy. He assumes it’s him, anyway – he can’t see the icon and he’s too tired to bother putting his glasses on. He taps out a reply with a time and place for Friday night. Even as he’s typing he gets a sense of déjà vu, but shrugs it off. Maybe he didn’t hit send last time – he was tired, and it sounds like something he’d forget to do.

By now it’s almost five, and Stiles’s stomach is clenching uncomfortably, so he drops his phone and heads for the bathroom, and then he’s exhausted so he sleeps most of the day away, and disregards his phone completely.

* * *

Stiles has every intention of being on time for his date, he really and truly does. It’s not even his fault this time. But when one of his parents corners him after class because they’re worried about their kid, what’s he meant to do, brush them off? Instead he stands there listening to their concerns, and when it becomes apparent this is a big deal he invites them back into his classroom and they spend the better part of an hour plotting a course of action to help the child with their anxiety issues.

By the time he finally leaves the school it’s well past five, and then there’s traffic, which means that it’s almost six by the time Stiles get home. He can work with this, he thinks. He has an hour to get cleaned up and ready for his first date in forever. It’s fine. He even knows what he’s going to wear, has checked his shirt for rips or stains and everything.

He manages to get showered and dressed just fine, and he thinks he looks pretty good. A glance at his watch shows that it’s only ten to seven, which for him is practically an hour ahead of time. His pleasure is short lived though, when he can’t find his wallet. He _just_ had it, too. Well, some time in the last few days. Definitely Tuesday. He doesn’t always carry it – its like his phone. Unless he needs it, he tends to ignore it.

Stiles spends fifteen minutes digging through his laundry basket and his drawers in a fruitless search, before sitting on his couch with a heavy sigh. He’s late. Barely late, but still late. He pulls his phone out to message his date and tell him he’s on his way, and sees that it’s gone dead. Or course. Stiles throws his arms up defeat and wonders if he should just skip the whole thing, since the dating gods obviously hate him.

The thing is, he likes Peter. Or at least, he likes his internet persona, which is a good start. With a sigh, Stiles shoves his hand down the side of the couch in a last ditch attempt to find his wallet, and miracle of miracles, his hand closes around the scuffed leather corners. He pulls it out and holds it aloft, triumphant. “Ha! Take that, dating gods!” he exclaims to the empty room.

He stuffs the wallet and his dead phone into his pocket, and after a moment’s debate, decides to walk to the restaurant – it’s a nice evening, knowing his luck he’ll never get a car park, and it’s only three blocks – ten minutes, tops. 7.30’s almost seven, right?

* * *

Ten minutes turns out to be closer to twenty, because Stiles is a terrible person with no concept of distance. By the time he gets to the restaurant, he’s slightly sweaty and out of breath, and it’s quarter to eight. He stands outside the door, taking a couple of deep breaths and hoping his face isn’t as flushed as it feels. He wipes his palms on his dress pants and walks inside where he sighs, closing his eyes for a just second and letting the aircon wash over him. He scans the room, looking for Peter.

He spies him, but he’s not alone. He’s standing next to…shit.

He’s standing next to Stiles’s mechanic. They appear to be friends, if the way they’re cozied up is any indication. And then Peter’s leaning forwards and whispering something in the mechanic’s ear, and judging by the way he laughs in response, his whole face lighting up as he throws his head back, it’s pretty hilarious. Or filthy. Or something.

Both men spot him at the same time. “Stiles?” they say in unison, and then stare at each other, looking slightly put out.

“This is your date?” Peter says, a crease appearing between his brows.

“Well, yeah,” mechanic guy replies, brow furrowed. ( _Chris, the mechanic’s name is Chris,_ Stiles’ mind finally supplies.)

Two sets of eyes turn to him, and Stiles has a sudden sinking feeling in his gut. He remembers arranging to meet Peter, sure, but what’s Chris doing here? “Um. Why are you both here?”

Peter raises an eyebrow. Stiles imagines it’s a look that works great in a courtroom, because god knows he certainly feels judged right now. “You invited me to meet you. _At._ _Seven._ ” He says pointedly.

“Same,” Chris chimes in, and hell, he’s giving Stiles Sad Eyes, and those things should be illegal.

Stiles bites his lip. What the hell? “I… look, there’s obviously been a mix up, but I swear this wasn’t on purpose. I wouldn’t do that.” Stiles really hopes they don’t leave, because they’re gorgeous, both of them. On impulse he makes praying hands. “Give me a chance to figure out how I screwed this up? Please?”

It’s Chris who lays a hand on his shoulder. “Listen kid, why don’t we get you a drink while we figure it out? You look like you ran a mile to get here.”

“Yeah,” Stiles says, immensely grateful. ”I kinda did. I’m sorry I’m late, there was a whole thing at work and then I lost my wallet and my phone was dead so I couldn’t message you.”

“How can you _lose_ your wallet?” Peter asks. “Don’t you keep it with you?” Stiles can feel the disbelief oozing from him and is suddenly certain that Peter’s the type of person who keeps all his receipts and has them filed by date.

“Not really? I’m not the most organized person,” Stiles admits. He indicates the two men in front of him. “Case in point, I guess.”

Peter thaws slightly at that. “You did say chaos is your constant companion in your profile,” he says, a tiny smile replacing the judgy look from earlier.

“It really is,” Stiles agrees. “Look, this is obviously a disaster. So I’ll understand of you both want to walk away.” He can’t believe he’s managed to screw this up so monumentally, and he’s still not even sure how he did it.

Peter and Chris exchange glances. Peter says, “In all honestly, we didn’t realize we were waiting for the same person, and we both thought we’d been stood up. We were busy commiserating when you arrived. But now you’re here, we might as well all have dinner. Christopher here’s quite good company.”

“It’s Chris. And you weren’t commiserating, you were _flirting,_ ” Chris corrects, grinning. He doesn’t look like he minds much.

“Semantics,” Peter says airily. “The point is, I’d very much like to have dinner with you, Stiles. Somehow you’ve managed to double book yourself, but that doesn’t mean we can’t all enjoy an evening together. And perhaps at the end on the night, you can tell us who you’d like to see again, and the other can bow out gracefully.”

“Bargain basement Bachelor,” Chris says thoughtfully. “I could get behind that.” He nods at Peter. “Just don’t be too upset when he chooses me.” Peter responds by poking out his tongue, which Stiles finds oddly endearing from a man wearing what looks like a thousand-dollar suit.

Stiles runs a hand through his hair. “So, you both want me to stay?” The men nod in unison. Stiles looks from one to the other. They’re both far better looking in person, both have that carefully groomed facial hair that he’s so fond of, both have startling blue eyes, and both are looking at him with undisguised interest. He shrugs. “What the hell. Let’s do it.”

* * *

Dinner’s the most fun Stiles has had in a long time. The first thing they do is figure out what happened. Stiles holds up his dead phone in apology, but Peter sides a hand inside his jacket and pulls out a portable charger pack so he can plug it in. “Do you just carry that around?” Stiles asks, entertained.

“Of course. Doesn’t everyone?” Peter asks, genuinely taken aback. Definitely a receipt filer, thinks Stiles.

He sees Peter tsking at the paint on his screen, and a moment later he’s handing over a wet wipe. Stiles takes it and cleans the glass just to mollify him, and wow, it really was dirtier than he thought. “Occupational hazard,’ he offers. Once he has power, he pulls up the app, takes one look, and groans.

“Fuck my life,” he mutters. There’s his message to Peter all right, and if he thinks about it hard enough, he remembers hearing it make the whooshing sound as he sent it. Right underneath it though, is a message, almost identical, that he sent in response to a request to meet from Chris.

“In my defense,” he starts, “I was sick. And it was 3 in the morning. And I wasn’t wearing my glasses. And on this tiny screen your icons are kinda the same.”

They are, too. Both men have a picture of a bearded face wearing sunglasses and a baseball cap. All three of them stare at the screen. “You were sick?” Chris asks.

“Yeah. Gastro went through my kinder class and it took me out as well. I woke up, saw Peter’s message and answered it, and you must have messaged in the meantime asking to meet. When I woke up again, I assumed I was seeing the same ask and that I just didn’t hit send. I’m so sorry.”

“It’s fine, Stiles,” Peter soothes, and even his voice is delicious, soft and soothing, satin and coffee cream and sex all in one. “As I said, we may as well enjoy the evening. I’ll just have to up my game a little to win you away from Christopher, that’s all. And I do like a challenge.”

 _I’ll bet you do,_ thinks Stiles. He imagines Peter takes great satisfaction in winning.

“That’s a mighty big challenge you’re issuing there, Mr suit-and-tie,” Chris intones. and _that,_ that’s a voice made for reading erotica aloud while sprawled over a couch. Stiles can’t hep the shiver that runs through him at the sound. Chris catches it and shoots Stiles a smug look, like he knows exactly what he’s doing. He probably does, Stiles reflects. You don’t have a voice like that and not know how to use it like a weapon. “Maybe Stiles isn’t into high class hot shots. Maybe baby _likes_ it a little rough and dirty.” Chris’s voice drops low, and yep, he knows exactly the effect he’s having. Stiles notices the way Peter’s mouth drops open at the sound, and takes comfort in the fact that at least he’s not the only one affected.

Their food arrives, and over dinner Stiles soaks up the attention from both men, smiling to himself as they both go out of their way to impress him. They lavish him with compliments, take turns feeding him, and race to get the attention of the server with the dessert trolley when Stiles indicates he’d like something sweet. It’s all very flattering.

As the meal draws to a close though, Stiles is painfully aware that there’s no way he’s going to be able to choose. How can he possibly pick? On the one hand, there’s clever, observant, seductive Peter, who oozes power and charm and promises all kinds of good things even when he doesn’t say a word. And when he does speak, he’s smart, if a little acerbic, and Stiles could listen to him for hours. Stiles would definitely like to see him again.

But he also wants to spend time with Chris, who in many ways is Peter’s polar opposite. Where Peter seems like he’s buttoned up a little tight, Chris is all easy smiles and soft laughter, sexy in a whole different way. He possesses enormous amounts of emotional intelligence, Stiles can tell, but that doesn’t mean he’s not conventionally clever as well. If Peter reminds Stiles of a Lamborghini, smooth and showy, Chris makes him think of a Jeep – practical, reliable, but also a whole lot of fun.

The problem is, he’d quite like to take them both for a ride.

The conversation between the three of them has been filled with joking and innuendo, and both men have proved they can both hold their own and keep up with his ramblings. They’ve been able to poke fun at themselves and the situation, and Stiles kind of feels bad that he’s going to have to disappoint one of them when they’ve taken the whole mess so well.

Stiles excuses himself to go to the bathroom and when he comes back the pair of them have their heads together, and he’s reminded of nothing so much as the two boys in his class who can absolutely never sit together because they’ll always, always, start scheming and get themselves in trouble.

He watches for a moment, and agonizes. The show pony or the mustang? It’s an impossible choice, and as he sits down he wonders if the right thing to do is pick neither. The thought makes him frown. Peter picks up on it instantly, because of course he does. “Problem, Stiles?”

Stiles blames the three glasses of wine he’s had for what comes out of his mouth next. “Are you sure I have to pick just one of you?”

There’s a moment’s silence during which Chris and Peter exchange a look, and a tiny nod. Peter hesitates for just a second before confessing, “Actually, Christopher and I were talking. If you hadn’t shown up when you did, Chris and I already had plans. We found each other rather attractive, and we were looking at hotel rooms.”

The disappointment hits Stiles like a punch to the gut, and he swallows. No wonder they looked so happy, he thinks bitterly. They were planning to ditch him. God, what kind of a disaster human even is he? Who else could screw up a date so badly that they managed to set their potential boyfriends _up with each other?_

If only he’d read his phone properly. If only he’d gotten here on time. Why can’t he manage the _simplest things?_ Stiles hates himself a little bit right now. But he’s an adult, and it’s not their fault he’s not what either of them wants, so he tries to keep the resentment out of his voice. He doesn’t quite manage it. “Oh, OK. I’m the one going home without a rose, huh? Great. I guess I’ll leave you to it, then.” 

He goes to stand, but Peter’s hand shoots out and grabs his wrist. “Stiles, sit down.” Peter’s grip is insistent and his tone commanding, and Stiles gives in to the relentless pull and takes a seat. Peter places his hand on top of Stiles’s and runs a thumb over the back. “I think you misunderstand me sweetheart, so let me clarify. There’s a hotel half a block away. It has a hot tub and a California King.” He pauses, and Stiles finds himself the subject of an intense gaze. “It would be perfect for the three of us.”

Oh.

They’re – they’re offering him both.

Stiles’s mouth drops open, and Chris leans over and puts one fingertip under his chin, gently closing it. “You’ll catch flies, baby,” he teases gently.

Stiles looks between them, uncertain, and sees that they’re deadly serious. “That’s - I’ve never done a threesome before.”

Chris places his hand on top of Peter’s. “Neither have I baby, but I’m a mechanic.” His mouth quirks into a smile. “I reckon I’m pretty good at figuring out how things fit.”

“And I have enough experience for the three of us,” Peter purrs, because of _course_ he has. “So tell me, Stiles, interested? No harm, no foul if you’re not, of course. But we both agree that you’re quite perfect, and we’d very much like to show you a good time.”

Stiles gulps nervously, and looks at the two hopeful faces. He glances down at the hands on his - Peter’s, with skin soft and smooth and warm, nails perfectly rounded and filed, and Chris’s, broad and workworn, a graze across one knuckle and a hint of engine oil still visible in the creases of his thumb. He can’t decide which set of hands he wants on him more.

He takes a deep breath, and thinks about he odds of a 97% compatibility rating _. Fuck it._ “That’s, um. I mean. Yes?”

Chris gives a smile that’s so fucking bright it could rival the surface of the sun, and murmurs. “I was hoping you’d say that, baby.”

Peter’s grinning widely, and already has his phone out issuing orders. “The honeymoon suite, champagne on arrival, and breakfast for three, yes _three_ , not before eight, actually make that nine, thank you. See you in ten minutes.” He’s quietly forceful, and Stiles wonders whether he’s like that in bed. He can’t wait to find out.

Maybe a little chaos isn’t such a bad thing, if it leads to this.

* * *

They don’t even have sex.

Well they do, but that’s later.

Firstly though, there’s kissing for days, and hands on his belt, and a belt in his hands, as they undress each other and get to touch and look and taste and feel. It turns into some sort of group hug sprawl thing that fills the bed from edge to edge, but they spend an awfully long time just getting skin on skin and getting comfortable with each other. Stiles is jittery, halfway between nervous and eager, but Peter catches his hand and runs a trail of kisses up the inside of his wrist, saying, “Relax, sweetheart. We’ll take it slow,” and that helps his nerves settle a little.

Chris does eventually pin him down and cover his torso with soft, openmouthed kisses, his stubble tickling and scraping Stiles’s skin, and Stiles arches into it. Then it’s Peter’s turn, and he’s less soft and a little hungrier, but he still checks in every step of the way, seeking permission before he brackets Stiles’s body under his and ruts against him, the weight and pressure grounding and perfect.

It doesn’t take long for Peter to get off, and Stiles is only seconds behind. And after that, well. The ice is broken, so to speak. Feeling bold, Stiles manoeuvres Chris so he’s sitting against the headboard, then gets his hands and mouth on Chris’s thick, gorgeous cock. While he’s doing that, Peter slips one, then two fingers into Stiles from behind, loosening him and lubing him up, and then somehow Stiles is on his hands and knees being split wide at both ends, rocking back and forth as he chases more. He comes twice and almost passes out from sheer bliss and it’s the most amazing experience of his life.

Actually, the _most_ incredible experience is afterwards, when they clean him up and fuss over him, and he finds himself sandwiched between two warm, muscular bodies with a stupid grin on his face.

He falls asleep like that, only waking briefly when a sleeping Peter throws an arm in his face and he has to shove it away. When he wakes properly, somehow he’s plastered along Chris’s side and he can feel Peter kissing the back of his neck. Chris is gazing at him with what can only be described as fondness. “Hey, sleeping beauty,” he says softly. “You doin’ okay?”

Stiles blinks and stretches. He feels amazing. “Mhmm. Feel good,’ he nods.

“Up for a little morning fun, sweetheart?” Peter asks, as his hands creep around Stiles’ belly and tug him backwards, and Stiles can feel Peter’s erection.

Stiles nestles in, giving his ass a wiggle and hearing Peter’s sharp intake of breath. “I mean, it’s a nice room. We may as well make the most of it.”

Chris huffs out a laugh. “I like how you think. How long till checkout?”

Peter peers at the bedside clock. “I arranged for late. Four hours, plenty of time.”

They barely make it.

* * *

Standing in the lobby, Stiles clears his throat awkwardly. “So, this was nice.” He cringes internally. _Nice??_ “Maybe we could grab dinner or something again, if you wanted? Both of you, I mean. Or either of you, if you’re both not interested? And if this was a one off, I’ll be seeing you I guess? Not that I’m saying you have to see me -”

His ramblings are cut off when Peter takes a step forward, grabs him, and kisses him soundly. His eyes go wide and he flails a little, but then he goes with it. Peter kisses like he means it, hot and hungry and a little bit dirty. When he finally lets go and steps back, Stiles is breathless. “I’d love to see you again, Stiles.”

Stiles blinks rapidly. “Oh. Really?”

Then strong arms are circling him, and he’s spun on his heel till he’s facing Chris, who leans in and kisses him as well, only this is soft and tender, a hand cupping his cheek, fingertip trailing down his jaw, and it’s unbearably sweet. When Chris draws away, he gazes straight into Stiles’s soul with those startling blue eyes. “Really. I’d like to see both of you again.” He cocks a brow at Peter. "What do you say, Suit-and-tie?”

Stiles sees the way Peter’s smile slips into something more genuine at the gentle teasing, even as he says, “Well somebody has to bring a little class to the party, so I suppose I’d better say yes.”

* * *

Stiles pretends to himself that it’s casual at first. He mentally calls it his _not-a-thing_ , simply because considering the logistics of if it _was_ a thing makes his head spin and his heart race when he thinks about it. Stiles can barely organize himself, let alone manage a relationship with two other people. A _not-a-thing_ though? He can probably handle that.

So despite the fact that they have dinner twice a week, despite the fact that he texts one or the other of his guys at least three times a day, despite the fact he spends most weekends at Peter’s place, he continues to bury his head in the sand like a particularly stubborn ostrich.

Surprisingly it’s Chris, who’s the most laid back of them all, who makes him face reality. The three of them are in Peter’s kitchen, sharing breakfast after a particularly satisfying night, when Chris says, “So, we ever gonna talk about what this is?” He waves his coffee cup vaguely in their direction.

Peter picks his own cup up. “What would you like it to be, Christopher?”

“I’d like us to be exclusive, I’d like us to be official, and I’d like Stiles to stop pretending we’re just a convenient booty call,” Chris says with a pointed look.

Stiles’s head snaps up. Peter turns to Stiles then, eyebrow raised. “You really think of us as just a _booty call?_ ” He looks distinctly offended.

“Nooooo?” Stiles tries.

 _“Hey Lyds, I can’t talk, I’m on a booty call,”_ Chris quotes at him, and Stiles flushes. He didn’t think anyone had heard that call this morning. 

He bites his lip. “It’s not what it sounds like. But this - whatever we have – it’s not normal, okay? And I just – I wasn’t sure if it was even a thing.” He stares intently into his cup and whispers, “I didn’t wanna jinx it.”

Chris heaves a sigh, reaches over, and drags Stiles onto his lap, causing Stiles to mutter about him being a caveman, even though they both know he loves being manhandled. “C’mere, kid,” Chris says, wrapping his arms around Stiles to keep him in place, leaning him back against his chest. “It’s different, what we’re doing. And that can be scary as hell, I get that.” He lets out a rueful chuckle. “Hell, I stayed married for nearly ten years trying to be _normal_.” 

Stiles gives a tiny nod. They’ve heard the tale of Chris’s disastrous marriage and subsequent coming out. Chris holds him gently, rocking a little in his chair, and it’s far more comforting that it should be. “But this? I think it could be something special.” He kisses the back of Stiles’ neck in a way that makes him melt, and says, “Wanna find out with me?”

Stiles lets out a groan “Why are you so fucking _nice?_ I feel like an asshole now.”

Peter chimes in then. “You’re not an asshole, sweetheart. You’re just uncertain. But I agree with Chris. We need to decide where this is going. So, are you interested in pursuing this, or has it all just been fun and games for you?”

Stiles frowns. “You know it’s more than that.” Even as he says it, he knows it’s true. Peter knows it too, if the satisfied smile he gives is any indication. Stiles tries to glare at him, but it’s hard to work up any kind of annoyance when it’s so nice here in Chris’s lap.

Peter catches Stiles’s eye and smirks. “Excellent. So, does this mean you’re prepared to move forwards?” He flutters his eyelashes exaggeratedly. “Want to make us your teacher’s pets?”

It’s the kissy face Peter makes and Chris’s answering chuckle that reassures Stiles that they’re not mad. He thought he’d screwed up, but it’s okay. Stiles’s gut unclenches, and he huffs out a laugh. “Teacher jokes, Peter? Really?”

Peter just shrugs, but his expression is kind. Stiles tries to imagine his life without that smile in it, without Chris’ easy laugh. He doesn’t like the picture his mind paints him.

He takes a deep breath. “Fine. Yes. We’re a thing.”

Peter’s smile widens, and Chris goes back to kissing his neck.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Stiles tells his dad.  
> Peter gets to show off his skills.

They fit.

Like pieces of a puzzle, Chris and Stiles and Peter slot together perfectly, despite the glaring differences between them. Peter, for one, is immensely satisfied with the arrangement. His house has become their default base of operations, since it’s the most central and also has the biggest bed. ( Peter went home after that first date and ordered a California King - he’d like to think of it as confidence, not arrogance.)

He’s willing to give up his spotless living space if it means he gets to wake up to the sound of Stiles laughing, to the press of warm bodies on either side of him, to Chris’s deep voice purring, “Morning, sweetheart. You awake enough for a little fun?”

Peter’s always awake enough for a little fun.

Ideally he’d like them to move in, but he doesn’t want to rush this. Stiles was skittish enough about being in a relationship as it is. Still, Peter hopes that in time, they’ll move on from sleepovers and weekends together to something more permanent. He tries to keep it casual when he gives them both a key, and ever the lawyer, he keeps his eyes and ears open for anything he can use to further his cause.

He doesn’t have to wait long.

Four months into their partnership (Peter _refuses_ to call it a throuple, no matter how Stiles pleads), he comes home to find Stiles and Chris sitting at his kitchen table, heads bent together over a letter. Chris is frowning, and Stiles is bitching. “I mean, it just seems wrong. I should sue them.” Stiles waves the paper at Peter as soon as he spots him. “Peter, come work some lawyerly magic here.”

“Nice to see you too, sweet boy,” Peter says, and then deliberately goes to put away his briefcase before being drawn into whatever this is, because Stiles needs to learn some manners. He takes his own sweet time joining them, stripping out of his suit, refusing to hurry despite the fact he can feel Stiles watching him from the bedroom door, paper dangling from his fingertips.

He turns, shirtless, and Stiles walks over and leans his head on Peter’s bare shoulder. “Sorry. Hi. I’m just a little stressed.” Stiles buries his face in the crook of Peter’s neck like a particularly affectionate tick, and mumbles, “Looks like I need somewhere else to live.”

Peter’s ears prick up. “Oh? What’s happened to your apartment?”

Stiles sighs against his skin. “Got given notice, owner’s selling the building and wants everyone out.”

Peter frowns. “Surely that breaches your lease?”

Stiles is suspiciously silent.

Peter pulls away and lift’s Stiles’ chin with one finger. “Stiles, please tell me that this falls under your definition of ‘ _important stuff’_ and that you actually have a lease?”

“I mean, we shook on it? He said he wasn’t selling for at least a couple of years.” Stiles perks up a little. “That counts, right, a verbal agreement?”

Peter feels bad for Stiles, honestly, and he supposes a case could be made, but it would be a long shot at best, and this fits in with his plans so very nicely. So he sighs, and says, “Honestly, sweetheart? Verbal agreements aren’t worth the paper they’re not written on.”

“That’s what I told him.” Chris chimes in, from where he’s joined them and is sitting on the bed. “So we gotta find our boy a new home.”

Stiles’s shoulder slump. “I haaate moving,” he whines. “Do you know how many boxes I own that are just craft stuff alone? And I’ll never get rent that cheap again.”

Peter leans his forehead against Stiles’s, and runs a comforting hand down the back of his neck. “I’ll help you find somewhere, and make sure it’s legal this time,” he says. He waits a beat before adding casually, “Or, you could both move in here. I wouldn’t mind.”

Chris snorts. _“I wouldn’t mind,”_ he mimics. “Like you haven’t been waiting to ask that.”

“Hush, you. Or I’ll rescind my offer.” He’ll do no such thing, and they all know it.

Stiles wraps his hands around the back of Peter’s head and pulls him in for an enthusiastic kiss, which Peter takes as a yes. “I’d love to,” he says when they part. “You in, Chris?”

Chris lets out a low, sexy laugh. It’s a sound Peter’s already addicted to. “Yeah, I’m in. My apartments’ not much, I’ll be glad to let it go.”

Peter feels satisfaction wash over him. He loves it when things go according to plan.

* * *

They hit a small speedbump when Peter refuses to let either of them pay rent. “I own the house. And I can afford to support us,” he argues, and is met with two matching glares.

“That’s not the point,” Chris tells him. “I’m too damned old to have a sugar daddy.”

“I don’t see why you’re being difficult about this,” Peter grumbles, and really, he doesn’t.

“Maybe because we’re grown-ass adults?” Stiles says, and his argument is only slightly negated by the fact he has a blob of dried glitter glue in his hair.

Peter thinks it’s charming, but now’s possibly not the time to focus on it, not when he’s trying to get the upper hand. “It doesn’t make sense for you to pay rent,” he tries again. “I don’t need the money.”

Chris lets out a sigh from the depths. “Peter, we know you earn more than the both of us put together, okay? But that’s not the point. I’ve managed to take care of myself my whole life, and it wouldn’t feel right to freeload.”

“Plus, it’s kinda presumptuous,” Stiles adds. “Even though I _am_ young and pretty enough to have a sugar daddy.”

Peter gives a frustrated huff. “Well what do you suggest?”

Chris hums, his expression thoughtful. “How about this? Stiles and I pay the utilities. You take care of property taxes, groceries, and we split anything else.”

It’s eminently sensible, as most things Chris comes up with are. Peter heaves a small sigh of relief when Stiles nods his agreement. “Yeah, that sounds good. I’d be happy with that.” He pauses. “Wait, does that mean since we’re paying, we can get Netflix?”

Peter rolls his eyes – he’s managed to avoid signing up till now, but he supposes he can yield, since he’s getting his own way on the rent thing. “We can get Netflix.”

They arrange the move for the following week.

* * *

Stiles is a terrible mover – he has no plan, and just looking at how he’s stuffed things randomly into boxes and failed to label them makes Peter twitch with the need to organise it all.

Fortunately, Chris is the polar opposite to Stiles, so once he’s finished unpacking his (clearly marked, tidily packed) possessions, he and Peter take charge, Stiles bouncing between them like a pinball as they hand him things with directions to “take that to the spare room” or “put these in the kitchen.” Peter notes that Stiles doesn’t try to interfere with the system he and Chris have going, but instead seems pathetically grateful. He says as much when they fold the last packing box and store it in the garage just after three pm. “Wow. You guys are life savers If you left it up to me, I’d still be unpacking at midnight.”

“Believe me,” Peter says drily. “We know.”

Stiles pretends to pout, but he can’t stop the smile from curling up the corners of his mouth. “I can’t believe I have an office now. Why do you even have a six bedroom house anyway?” Stiles asks. “It’s a lot for a single guy.”

Peter shrugs. “It was too good to pass up. I just happened to be looking when it came up for sale, and it was a steal – foreclosure.”

Stiles nods. “That makes sense.” He gets a gleam in his eye. “So now that we’re moved in officially, can we christen all the rooms?” He wraps his arms around Peter’s waist and pulls him close.

Peter looks down at himself. He’s sweaty and dishevelled, streaked with dust and grime. “I’m a mess, sweetheart. So’s Chris.”

Stiles shrugs. “I know. I kinda like it.” He runs a finger through the dirt on Peter’s bicep. “I could help you shower.”

Peter feels the weight of Chris’s body behind him. “What do you say, suit-n-tie? Wanna get wet and messy?”

Peter shivers with anticipation. Every so often, Peter’s two lovers decide to gang up and take him apart, and it always ends up with him an exhausted, satisfied, mess. Chris’s use of the affectionate nickname clues him in that this is probably one of those times. “I could be persuaded, I suppose.”

Strong hands slide under the hem of his shirt and tug it over his head. Stiles gets in on the act, yanks Peter’s jeans down and runs his hands over Peter’s ass, crooning, “Gonna get you clean, and then I’m gonna fuck you so good. You want that, lawyer man?”

Peter doesn’t answer, because Stiles is kissing down the side of his throat and he’s suddenly short of breath. He finds himself lifted off his feet, Chris hoisting him up effortlessly and carrying him through to the bathroom bridal style, Stiles following along.

Definitely one of those times, then.

* * *

Peter comes home from work about a fortnight after they’ve moved in together to see a strange car in his driveway. Stiles’s terrible jeep is there as well, and Peter opens the front door to catch the tail end of an argument, an unfamiliar voice, load and demanding. “ – and all _I’m_ saying is if it’s so above board, why the hell did you wait till you’re living together to tell me?”

He hears Stiles then, can hear the frustration evident in his tone. ”Because I knew you’d overreact like this. Jesus, dad. I’m twenty-six. I know what I want, and I’m happy. Why can’t you just accept that?”

“Because we both know you make terrible decisions when it comes to dating! And moving in when I haven’t even met them, haven’t even had a chance to run their details through the system? What the hell were you thinking?”

Ah.

Stiles has finally told his father, then. Peter knows he’s been putting it off, and he and Chris haven’t pressed the point, after Stiles told them his father still treats him like he’s seventeen, refuses to acknowledge he’s an adult. But Stiles has obviously taken the plunge, and it sounds like it’s going about as well as he predicted.

Peter feels for his boy, and decides that maybe it’s time the sheriff gave his son a little credit. Peter makes his presence known by stepping into the living room and walking over to Stiles, leaning in to gently kiss his cheek. “Afternoon, sweetheart,” he says easily before turning to the middle-aged man standing with his hands on his hips, chest heaving. “And you must be Stiles’s father. Pleased to meet you. Peter Hale.” He extends a hand and leaves it there until the man reluctantly shakes it.

“Peter, this is my dad, John Stil –“

“ _Sheriff_ Stilinski,” the father cuts in.

Oh, so it’s going to be like that, is it? “Pleasure to meet you, Sheriff. What brings you to our humble abode?” He places emphasis on the word _our_.

“Stiles tells me you’re living together.” The sheriff’s arms are crossed in a defensive gesture, his body closed off.

Peter deliberately leaves his arms loose by his sides, open and unthreatening. “That’s right. We’ve been dating for a while now, and this seemed like the next step.”

“And there’s another one of you?” John almost spits the question out, and Peter has a moment’s sympathy for the sheriff – it’s a lot to digest, he knows. But at the same time, the man’s in _their_ home, and Stiles is clearly upset, and _that_ , Peter won’t stand for.

“You obviously know the answer to that, Sheriff, so why bother asking?” Peter lets a steely edge creep into his voice, a tone that he normally reserves for the courtroom. “Or is it that you don’t trust your own son?”

A crease appears in John’s brow. “What? Of course I trust my son!’

Peter doesn’t let him say any more, cutting in with, “And would you say you’ve been a good parent, John? Brought your boy up well?”

“Damn right I did!” John sputters.

“I see.” Peter pauses for a moment. “In that case, you’ll have to forgive me, but _why_ are you here, exactly? I know it’s a four-hour drive, and I doubt you were overcome with a sudden wave of affection, given that Stiles hasn’t seen hide nor hair you in the last six months.” It’s a low blow, a subtle rebuke, and Peter doesn’t care.

“I _came_ because it sounded like my kid had gotten himself mixed up in something he shouldn’t have,” the sheriff snaps.

Peter raises a brow. “I’m sorry? I thought you said you did a good job raising your son?”

John face takes on a pinched expression. “What the hell does that have to do with anything?”

Peter shrugs. “I just assumed that would mean that you’d trust his judgement, given that he’s a fully functioning adult.”

John glares at Peter _hard_ , but Peter holds his gaze, and after a minute the other man drops his head. “But it’s goddam weird, okay?” He bursts out. “Normal people don’t date in threes. And I mean, look at you, all tizzied up in a damn suit, and you’re telling me you’re with my kid, who struggles to match his shoes most days? How the _hell_ are you a good match?”

Stiles lets out an indignant “Hey!”

There’s the sound of the front door, and Chris strides into the room. “Hey why is there a car - oh.” Chris, bless his unflappable heart, takes in the situation at a glance and doesn’t miss a beat. “Hey. You must be Stiles’s dad, I’m Chris. Nice to meet you. Beer?”

He draws John in for an awkward hug before he can protest, leaving the man looking slightly stunned, then drops a kiss on both Peter and Stiles’s cheek, and as he walks from the room he calls back, “Lemme guess, the kid finally fessed up and you drove up here to make sure we’re not a couple of deviants taking advantage of your boy?” He’s back in the room, beers in hand, and as he hands them around, he continues, “I get that. I’ve got a kid of my own. Don’t see her much, but you better believe I’d do anything for her.”

“The sheriff here was just calling us terrible decisions,” Peter adds, and is gratified to see the John’s face flush with something like shame at being called out.

Stiles rolls his eyes at Peter, runs a hand through his hair in frustration, and mouths _stop it._ “Dad, this is Chris Argent.”

John’s head jerks up at the name, and Peter’s not surprised. Of course someone in John’s line of work would have an interest in professional shooting. “Argent? Wait, not the _Olympic_ Argents?”

Chris gives him a relaxed grin. “Yup. Nine gold medals for shooting. Everyone in the family’s a crack shot except me. I’m the black sheep – can’t shoot to save myself, so I just get covered in grease for a living.” He indicates the motor oil on his forearm.

Peter can see the moment John gives in to Chris’s relentless charm and decides to play nice. “Does that mean you’ll do something about that death-trap my kid drives?”

Chris lets out a chuckle. “I already have – I’m surprised it was even running. Now though? It’s a lot better.”

Peter lets out a breath he didn’t know he’d been holding, and thanks the gods for Chris and his easy manner. He doesn’t regret confronting the sheriff about his assumptions, but this means they can move into smoother waters without it being awkward. “Tell me John, would you like to stay for dinner, spend the night?” he asks. “There’s plenty of room, and we’d like to get to know you better.” He gives the man his most charming smile. “Chris could light the grill, get some steaks going.”

Peter notes that Stiles nods in agreement, although he interjects, “You can have chicken breast, Pops. Cholesterol.” 

John shoots back, “Maybe since you expect me to trust you, you can return the favor, since I’m a fully functioning adult, huh kid?” Stiles lets out an outraged squawk, and the tension in the room eases palpably. John turns to Peter. “Steak sounds great – the bigger the better.”

* * *

They spend the evening plying John with food and drink, answering his questions, even the ones that make Stiles elbow his father in the side and hiss _“Dad!”_ in a scandalized tone.

Yes, they’re aware it’s unusual. Yes, it did take some getting used to. No, it’s not just a fling. Yes, Stiles still leaves wet towels on the bathroom floor.

“How the hell did you even end up together anyway?” John finally asks. (He relented on the whole “Call me Sheriff’ thing three scotches in.)

Chris is the one who grins and points to Stiles. “Stiles accidentally set up a date with both of us at the same time.” He goes on to detail how Stiles had managed that exactly, and how the three of them had gotten along so well they’d decided to date, leaving out the part where they’d leapt into bed immediately.

“So, you and Peter didn’t know each other first?” John asks, surprised. A piece of the puzzle clicks into place for Peter, then, and he sees how John had leapt to conclusions, had assumed they were a pair of middle-aged predators luring in a sweet young thing.

“Absolutely not,” Peter states. “We only met because of your boy’s inability to remember if he’s sent a message.” Peter rolls his eyes fondly.

“He’s just so different from either of you. I don’t see how the hell this works.” Peter can see that John’s trying, at least.

“Stiles is…” Peter searches for the words. He finally settles on, “Stiles is remarkable. He makes me happy, and I hope I do the same for him.”

John looks at the three of them, considering. “And you’re all okay with this? It’s not just a flash in the pan? I won't get a call in amonth saying my kid's homeless because you've moved on?”

Chris shakes his head. “We're in this for the long haul. We both care deeply for Stiles, even if he is a walking disaster area.”

The tension around John's eyes disappears, and he lets out a snort. “You got that part right, anyway,” he agrees, and proceeds to spend the next half an hour dragging up tales from Stiles’s teenage years to prove it, ranging from the time he went wandering in the woods looking for a dead body and got lost to the time he accidentally handcuffed himself to the sheriff’s desk.

Chris roars with laughter at that one, and John looks far too satisfied.

“Oh my god,” Stiles mutters, face flushed with embarrassment. “What next? Baby pictures?”

Chris leans in and throws an arm casually around Stiles’s shoulders. “Naw, baby. We only tease you ‘cause we love you, you know that.” He ruffles Stiles’s hair, and leans in for a kiss. It’s all done so naturally, and Peter sees the sheriff‘s expression soften when Stiles gives Chris a look of pure adoration. He wonders once again if, despite the fact he’s the only one of them without a college degree, Chris is the smartest one here.

* * *

Sometimes, Stiles is a little shit.

Sometimes, Peter is too. It keeps things interesting.

Case in point, Peter walks into the kitchen one afternoon to find Stiles staring at the contents of the walk-in pantry. “What are you looking for, sweetheart?”

Stiles tilts his head. “Peter, are your canned goods actually _alphabetized?_ ”

Peter shrugs. “I like things in order. Can you think of a better system?”

Stiles turns and gives a tiny smirk. So, if I was to do this,” he picks up a can of tuna and moves it to the stack of canned green beans, “It’d really upset you, huh?”

Peter can’t stop the eye twitch, and Stiles catches it. “It does! It messes with your mind!” he crows.

Peter forces himself not to react. “It doesn’t. I just like things tidy.” He walks away, and hopes Stiles will let it go.

He doesn’t, of course.

The next time Peter opens the pantry, the cans are in random stacks, with no regard for use by date or contents, and he spends an hour restoring order, muttering under his breath about brats who think they’re funny. Stiles sits on the kitchen counter swinging his legs and cackling. Peter wishes he could get properly annoyed about it, but the expression on Stiles’s face is so gleeful he can’t really find it in himself to stay upset.

Later, with some help from Chris, he edges Stiles till he begs for mercy. It’s immensely satisfying, and Stiles assumes that was the payback for his little stunt. Peter lets him think so.

He waits a few days, and then makes a delicious lamb curry for dinner, complete with homemade naan bread and jasmine rice. Stiles moans when he smells it – he loves Peter’s cooking. “It’s mild, right?” he checks, because Stiles has the tastebuds of a six-year-old. Peter just nods and dishes them all up a plateful, smiling pleasantly.

Stiles takes a giant bite, chews and swallows. The look on his face when the extra chili kicks in is priceless. His eyes go wide, his mouth hangs open, and he starts coughing. His eyes start to water as he swallows convulsively, grabbing a glass of water and gulping it down to no effect. Peter watches on, still smiling. “Jesus! What the hell?” Stiles croaks out, as he bolts to the fridge to get some milk. “You said it was mild!”

“Oh, is it not?” Peter says, all innocence. “My mistake. _Somebody_ must have mixed up my spices. I’m normally so careful to keep them in order.” Stiles glares at him, eyes still watering, and guzzles the milk straight out of the carton in retaliation.

“You’re a bastard, you know that right?” Chris says with a grin, as he gives Peter a high five.

“Absolutely. It’s the backbone of my career,” Peter agrees, and he and Chris carry on eating. They both prefer things on the spicy side.

(Peter makes it up to Stiles later, kissing the sting away and spoon feeding him ice cream, before blowing him nice and slow and sloppy. Stiles declares Peter forgiven, but he also doesn’t touch Peter’s canned goods again.)

* * *

Summer vacation’s just around the corner, and Stiles is all but bouncing with excitement at the thought of the long break, even though he’s sad to see his class moving on. Chris though, seems on edge. Peter gives him an assessing look one evening, and says, “Spill, Christopher. What has you so twitchy?”

Chris leans forwards, elbows on his knees where he’s perched on the couch, and examines the back of his hands closely. “It’s summer break. I get to see Allie.”

He doesn’t look particularly happy at the prospect, and Peter can guess why. “And you haven’t told her about your new living arrangements?”

Chris, who’s usually the most collected of them all, squirms. “I don’t see her much as it is,” he admits. “I didn’t wanna give Vicki an excuse to stop me seeing her altogether. But now she’s due in three weeks, and I’m worried what she’ll think. What they’ll both think.”

Peter raises a brow, and asks what he’s wanted to ask for a while now. “Why is it, exactly, that you don’t see your daughter, Chris? Who made that choice?”

Chris hangs his head even lower. “When I left, Vicki was gutted. And it wasn’t her fault, you know? She was angry, and upset, and I didn’t want to make it harder on her, so I just went along with whatever she wanted. So now I get three visits a year, and pay the child support, and thank my lucky stars I even get that. She could have gotten nasty about it.”

Stiles chokes on his drink and interjects from where he’s sitting, “ _Could have gotten nasty?_ Chris, buddy, hate to break it to you, but three visits a year is bullshit.” When Peter and Chris both stare at him he shrugs. “What? Plenty of the kids in my class come from split families, and not one of them have an arrangement like that.”

“Technically I’m meant to see Allie every other weekend, but her mother nixed it. Called me a deviant, said she didn’t want me _corrupting an innocent_.” He laughs, and there’s a bitter edge to it. “God knows what she’ll make of this, right?”

Peter takes notice at that. “Wait, so you have a pre-existing arrangement of every second weekend, but she’s not honoring it?”

Chris’s shoulders drop. “Yeah, well. Like I said. Vicki was pretty upset. I didn’t wanna rock the boat. And she lets me have phone calls sometimes.”

Stiles and Peter exchange a look. “They live in town, right?” Stiles asks.

“Yeah, why?”

Peter lets out a sigh and pinches the bridge of his nose. “Distance isn’t an issue, is what Stiles is getting at. Right. My office, tomorrow morning at eight. Bring me the paperwork. I need to see what I’m working with.”

Chris lifts his head. “What?”

Peter rolls his eyes. “Sweetheart, I’m taking your case. Don’t argue,” he says, when Chris looks like he’s about to do just that. “I know when you were first separated you probably just wanted to keep everyone happy, but you’re not the only one missing out – Allison is too.”

Chris grimaces. “I know. All that therapy after the divorce kinda cured me of my martyr complex. I just haven’t been game to approach Victoria yet. But I think it might be time.”

Peter smiles, shark-like. “Especially now you have an _excellent_ lawyer on your side.”

* * *

The paperwork’s pretty straightforward.

Peter rifles through it, taking notes. “So how often do you want to see your daughter, Chris? Are you happy with every second weekend, or do you want more?”

Chris’s eyebrows raise in surprise. _“More?”_

Peter nods absently. “I’m sure I could make it happen. Every weekend and holidays, if you wanted?”

Chris considers for a moment before shaking his head. “Let’s see if we can get this to stick first. I don’t wanna upset Allie with too much upheaval.”

Peter feels a pang of sadness for the fact that Chris and his daughter have been robbed of their time together - Chris obviously cares for her deeply – but he just nods. “We’ll start with getting Victoria to honor the current agreement.”

“Good luck getting her to play nice.” Chris looks skeptical, which Peter would find insulting, if he hadn’t heard what a stone-cold bitch Chris’s ex is.

Still. He smirks. “Darling, I don’t think you understand. I’m very, very, good at what I do.” He lifts the papers and waves them at Chris. “If you wanted, I could get this whole thing scrapped and get you full custody. It’d take some legal bastardry on my part, but I could definitely make it happen. But only if that’s something you wanted. For now, if you’re happy with this arrangement, then let’s talk to her, see if she’s willing to toe the line.”

 _And if she’s not_ , he thinks _, I’ll just have to change her mind._

* * *

Chris wants to just meet Victoria somewhere for coffee, insisting that informal would be best, but Peter gives him an incredulous stare. “Christopher, _you’re not friends._ We want her to know we’re serious. She’s not going to get that impression sipping a latte and eating a blueberry scone. No, we bring her to the offices for a meeting. Let her see my name on the door, get an idea of who she’s dealing with.”

“But I want it to be amicable,” Chris protests, looking to Stiles for moral support.

Stiles, surprisingly, sides with Peter. “No offence dude, but you tried amicable. How’d that work out for you, exactly?” Chris shoots him a look, but Stiles shrugs. “Nope. As a cop’s kid, I’ve heard enough stories about custody agreements going pear-shaped to know you gotta dot the i’s and cross the t’s. Peter’s right. You’re better to meet at the firm.”

Chris grumbles and huffs, but Peter knows it’s just nerves, so he doesn’t take it personally. He sends out a letter advising Victoria that Chris wants to meet to discuss custody arrangements and naming a time and date.

Victoria brings representation, which is no surprise to Peter but is apparently a shock to Chris. “She brought a lawyer!” he hisses to Peter.

Peter just rolls his eyes. “So did you. And out of the two of us, I know who I’d back.”

He watches, amused, as the other man blanches when he catches sight of Peter. He’s some run of the mill pencil pusher from a local firm, nobody noteworthy, and from the expression on his face he wasn’t expecting Peter to be the one he was meeting with. He suspects that Victoria hired him straight out of the yellow pages, just for show. Peter extends his hand and the other man (Bradley? Brady?) shakes it. Peter notes with satisfaction that the man’s palm is slick with sweat.

“Shall we sit?” he offers pleasantly.

Chris’s ex gives him a curt nod and takes a seat. She looks like the sort of woman who’d slit someone’s throat and then afterwards offer you a cookie, all with the same forced smile. She certainly doesn’t seem like the type to give any ground, especially where her child’s concerned. 

They settle in, and she says, “So what’s this about?”

Apparently, she’s also straight to the point. Peter appreciates that, and so he doesn’t play about. “It seems you haven’t been keeping to your custody agreement, Victoria.”

She arches an imperious brow at him, and Peter can’t help but admire the steel in her voice when she says, “It hasn’t been a problem till now. Christopher and I have an unofficial understanding.”

Peter’s eyes flick to her lawyer, wondering if he’ll have anything to add, but he’s still staring at Peter, looking like he’s about to cry, so Peter flicks open the folder in front of him. “Hmmm. Every second weekend, it says here. Yet I know for a fact it’s been _seven months_ since Allison saw her father. I feel that needs to change, don’t you?”

Victoria remains silent, and to his credit, Brad-whatever does his best. “There’s never been any indication that Mr Argent was unhappy with his access before now.”

Peter turns a shark-like grin on him. “Consider this an indication. Mr Argent would like to see Allison every second weekend as per the original court order, starting immediately. This isn’t negotiable.”

Peter sees Victoria’s hands tighten around the arms of her chair. “You can’t just waltz in after all this time and change things! Allie and I have a routine! I’ll fight.”

Chris goes to speak but Peter raises a hand. He’d suspected Victoria would say as much, and he has a plan in place. “A routine, you say?” He picks up the envelope that’s lying on his desk and slides it open, placing the photos his PI has taken on the table. “So tell me, Victoria. Is it _routine_ for Allison to come home to an empty house and be left unsupervised four afternoons a week until 8 pm?” He taps the time and date stamp on the photos that show her pulling into the driveway. “Is it _routine_ for you to go drinking every Friday night?” He taps the picture of her, beer held aloft, laughing into the shoulder of some man. “ _Routine_ for you to take strange men home while she’s there?” He points at the next picture, showing Victoria and bar guy walking up her driveway at midnight, her arm wrapped firmly around his waist.

Chris mutters out a curse, but Peter ignores him, locking gazes with the redhead.

“That’s not how it looks!” she protests. “We’re dating! Allie _likes_ Jim!”

“Oh, I have no doubt. But that’s not my point. My point is, you could fight this. Please, do try. But know that if you do, _I’ll fight back.”_ He taps the photo again, and sees the second she realizes this is a battle she'll never win,

Still, Victoria turns to her lawyer, hissing, “Are you sure you can't do something?” She looks furious, and Peter doesn’t blame her, not really.

The other lawyer shakes his head firmly. “Not a snowball's chance in hell. You said Hale and associates, so I thought I'd be dealing with an associate. Nobody told me I’d be facing Peter Hale, _The_ Hale. If you know what’s good for you, you’ll cooperate and be glad you still have custody at all. Besides,” he adds. “Is it so bad for your daughter to spend some time with her father?”

Peter feels himself starting to warm to the young man, who at least has the good sense to know when he's beaten. He leans forward in his seat and catches Victoria’s eye. “All we want is for Christopher to see his daughter, and for you to start abiding by the original agreement,” he says gently. Sympathetic, understanding, almost. “ If we can make that happen without having to resort to going before a judge, that would be in everyone’s best interests, don’t you think?”

Victoria’s lips draw into a thin line as she accepts defeat. “I’ll have to talk to Allison. If she agrees, you can have your damn weekends.”

Chris gives her a nod then, and speaks for the first time. “It means a lot to me. Thanks, Vic.” Peter watches as the use of the affectionate nickname makes the corners of Victoria’s mouth curl up in a hint of a smile. Her expression softens, and just for a second, he can see what Chris saw in her.

Chris reaches out and places a hand on hers. “So, Jim huh?”

Victoria rolls her eyes and snatches her hand away. “Is this really the place to discuss it?” And just like that, her prickly demeanor's back in place.

Chris shrugs, unfazed. “I was just gonna suggest that if you do want Friday nights as date night, Allie can come to my place after school, give you some breathing space.”

Peter’s going to have a _stern_ word to Chris later about making suggestions without running it past his lawyer, Peter thinks, but it just so happens in this case his suggestion’s a good one. “That does fall within the parameters of the original agreement,” Peter points out.

Victoria’s lawyer nudges her. “There’s nothing to fight here, no way for you to win without dragging this back to court. It’s not even a new arrangement. I’d just say yes.”

He definitely likes this man, Peter thinks. He stands, then, straightens the papers on his desk, scoops up the photos and slides them back into the envelope. “In that case, I’d say we’re done here. You’ll add Mr Argent to the list of approved persons at Allison’s school, and he’ll collect her Friday afternoon.”

“That’s only three days! And what if Allie says no?” Victoria protests.

“I can’t see why she would – from what I’ve been told she’s quite fond of her father,” Peter says firmly.

He doesn’t mention that most of what he’s been told of Allie was gleaned two Sundays ago, during an afternoon lazing in bed together, as Chris stroked his hair and talked about his kid, talked about how they always had such a good time together, voicing his hopes that maybe, if this worked out, he’d get to see more of her. Peter had determined, in that moment, that he’d do whatever it took, and called the PI the next day.

“Fine,” Victoria says stiffly, and stalks out of the office without waiting for a response.

Bradley/Brady lingers for a moment. and when he shakes Peter’s hand goodbye it’s not sweaty this time. “It was a privilege watching you work,” he says. “I hope I never see it again, at least not from this side of the desk.”

That startles a laugh out of Peter. He takes another look at the baby lawyer, considering, and listens to his gut. It rarely steers him wrong, so he fishes out a business card. “I like you. And I may have a vacancy for a junior associate, if you have the balls for it. Call me.”

The man’s eyes widen as he looks from Peter to the card to Peter again, and his face breaks into a delighted grin. “Really? No shit? Shit, sorry, I mean –“

He reminds Peter quite a lot of Stiles, now he thinks about it. “Take a breath. Go home, think it over, call me when you can form a full sentence,” Peter tells him, not unkindly.

After he leaves, Chris doesn’t hesitate to scoop Peter up in his arms and kiss him passionately. Peter lets him, for about ten seconds, and then he pulls away, huffing, “Please, sweetheart. You’re creasing my Armani.”

“I don’t give a damn about your Armani.” Chris tells him, and kisses him again, all his appreciation evident.

Peter lets out a breathless laugh, and tells Chris, “You can thank me properly later. But right now I have another meeting in fifteen minutes, and I don’t think my client would be impressed finding a half-naked man laying on my desk.”

Chris smirks, and nuzzles Peter’s ear. “What about _under_ the desk?”

Peter breath catches just at the thought of it. “You,” he tells Chris as he shoves him lightly backwards, resisting temptation with all his might, “Are a wicked, wicked tease. Absolutely not.”

Chris just grins, and Peter files the idea away for further consideration.

Perhaps one evening, when there’s nobody else here.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Peter used to have such a tidy life.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is the end, I swear.

Sometimes, Peter forgets why it was that he wanted to be a lawyer, wonders why he ever subjected himself to such madness. But looking at the broad smile on Chris’s face as he talks to his teenage daughter on the phone that night, he's reminded exactly why he does this.

Chris is beaming, looking like all his Christmases have come at once, as he says, “I know Allie, I’m excited too. Yeah. Every second weekend, that’s right. Your mother had a change of heart, I guess.”

When he hangs up he turns and grips Peter by the shoulders and backs him into a wall, caging him there with his body. He’s still grinning as he leans in and kisses down the side of Peter’s throat, murmuring, “You gonna let me thank you properly now?”

“What did you have in mind?” Peter asks, breath catching. Chris doesn’t say anything, just drops to his knees, and then all Peter's clever words are lost, and he's reduced to _gods_ and _yes_ and _please_ for the next few minutes as Chris puts his talented mouth to work.

He’s still sagged against the wall, body limp and post-orgasmic, when Stiles walks in. Stiles just shakes his head at the pair of them. “Just so you know, I’m gonna want in on that later,” he calls back over his shoulder as he wanders back off to whatever the hell he was doing.

* * *

There’s not much to do to prepare, the spare room’s perfectly serviceable for a fifteen year old, but Chris spends hours cleaning what will be Allie’s room to within an inch of its life, adding throw pillows to the bed, putting a TV in there, and buying new bed linen in soft mint greens because that’s what Allie likes, and he says he wants her to feel welcome.

Peter lets him fuss, knowing he’s probably nervous under all the excitement. After all, they don’t know how Allison’s going to react to their living situation, and she may well turn around and want nothing to do with any of them. Peter and Stiles leave it up to Chris what he tells her. “We could be roommates,” Peter offers, “If that makes it easier. In this economy, its not unheard of.”

Stiles intones, “Oh my god, they were roommates!” Then he snorts. “Yeah, no way is she falling for that. I mean, apart from the one bedroom and the giant bed, you two can’t keep your hands to yourselves.” Since he’s sprawled in Chris’s lap stealing kisses at the time, the accusation doesn’t carry much weight.

Peter turns to Stiles and raises one eyebrow. “ _Who_ can’t keep their hands to themselves?”

Stiles shrugs, unrepentant. “Point is, she’s not gonna believe we’re just friends.”

Chris hums. “I won’t lie to her. Allie’s a good kid, I’m sure it will be fine.”

Peter wishes he shared Chris’s faith in his daughter.

* * *

As it turns out, it’s all pretty anti-climactic.

Peter’s taken an early finish so he’s home when Allison arrives, figuring Chris might need moral support. Chris arrives with his daughter and is introducing her to Peter when there’s a banging at the front door.

It’s Stiles, who’s weighed down under two giant bags of polystyrene…objects, and can’t get his keys out. Chris rushes to help, and Allison watches on as Chris rescues the bag from scattering its contents. Stiles catches her watching and gives her an easy smile. “Hey! Allison, right? I’m Stiles.” He gestures the bags of shapes. “The kidlets’ dinosaur sculptures need some structural reinforcement.”

Allison squints at the contents. “They don’t look like dinosaurs.”

Stiles laughs. “Right? They’re a loose interpretation. I’m all about creative freedom in my class.”

Allison steps closer, smiling despite herself, as Stiles dumps the bags on the couch. Peter can’t help himself. “I swear to god Stiles, if there’s glitter on those…”

“Nah, I know the rule.” He turns to Allison. “Peter here has an unreasonable hatred of fun.”

“I do not! I just refuse to have craft herpes in this house. It’s bad enough you drag glue and paint through the front door and dump it here instead of _in your office_ ,” Peter says pointedly, grabbing the bags and carrying them through to what he secretly thinks of as Stiles’s pit of despair, not that he’d ever call it such a thing aloud. He finds a flat surface and plops the shapes down before walking back out to the living area, where Allison looks between the three of them, a strange expression on her face.

She starts to open her mouth, then clamps it firmly closed again. Chris throws an arm around her shoulders, and says, “Let’s put your stuff away, okay baby?”

Peter can hear the affection in Chris’s voice, and it makes his heart melt. Stiles must feel the same, because as Chris leads his daughter upstairs with her bag, he bumps shoulders with Peter. “He’s so fucking happy right now,” he murmurs, a soft smile on his face. “You did good.”

Peter wants to bask in the moment, but if he’s learned one thing in years of dealing with people, it’s that they’re unpredictable. This could all still go so very wrong. So he deflects with, “ _You did good?_ That’s the kind of English you’re using as an educator? Shame on you, Stiles.”

Stiles pokes his tongue out. “Evolution of language, old man,” he teases.

Chris is upstairs for a long time, and Peter surmises that Allison’s asking the question she wanted to ask before. He and Stiles putter about the place, unable to relax, neither of them mentioning the elephant in the room as they wait. When Chris does come downstairs, he’s alone, but there’s a tiny smile playing about his lips. “Allie will be down in a little bit,” he says. “She says she just needs a minute to get her head around it.”

“She’s not upset?” Peter asks, already planning how to talk her around if that’s the case.

Chris’s smile widens. “She wasn’t as shocked as I thought she would be. Apparently she has friends whose parents are in a poly relationship, so it’s not completely new to her. She’s more nervous that you two won’t like her.”

Stiles rolls his eyes. “Or course we’ll like her. I already like her. I mean come on, Chris. She’s yours. Besides, those dimples? Adorable.”

Peter relaxes a little. “When she comes down, I promise we’ll try and make a good impression. Although it might be too late for some of us,” he adds drily, rubbing a thumb down the front of Stiles’s Bert and Ernie T shirt where there’s dried…something. (Glue? Papier Mache? Who knows?)

Stiles pokes his tongue out. “Hey, some of us have hands on professions, okay?”

There’s the sound of a throat clearing and they all turn to see Allison standing at the bottom of the stairs, looking as if she wants to say something but doesn’t quite know what. Chris raises an eyebrow at her. “You okay, honey?”

She hesitates, and then gives a tiny nod. “Yeah. It’s… yeah.”

Stiles takes pity on her. “It’s a lot, huh? Trust us, we know. My dad nearly blew a gasket. Parents - they’re the worst.” He tips a wink at Chris as he says it. That earns him a tiny smile, so Stiles carries on. “Hey, you wanna help me fix the dinosaur fuckups and then get your ass handed to you at Mariocart?”

 _“Language,”_ Peter and Chris intone at the same time.

Allie bites her lip to stifle a giggle, and Stiles grins, before delivering a completely insincere, "Oops, My bad. Anyway, you in?”

Allison looks over at Chris, and then gives Stiles a brilliant smile. “Lead the way.”

“If you’re going into Stiles’s office, I suggest tying a string around your waist so we can pull you out of there,” Peter advises. “Otherwise you’re likely to get buried in an avalanche of half-finished projects.”

Stiles looks highly offended. “Just for that, we’re using the dining table.” He holds up a hand before Peter can protest, “And yes, I’ll use the plastic tablecloth so we don’t make a mess.”

Peter closes his mouth.

Chris watches as the pair of them go off to gather their stuff, and says out of the side of his mouth, “Did Stiles just kidnap my daughter?”

“Don’t worry sweetheart, I’m sure he’ll give her back,” Peter murmurs just as quietly, and lets an arm slip around Chris’s waist.

Sure enough, Stiles calls out, “You know, if you two pitched in, we’d be done an hour.” Which is how Peter finds himself spending the afternoon holding chunks of foam in place as Stiles directs Allison where to secure them and how. Chris chips in with suggestions about strategic anchor points, and it’s a good way to spend time together, hands busy, atmosphere relaxed, as Allison shyly asks Stiles where he teaches, what Peter does, how long they’ve been together. She seems okay with the whole thing, and that’s the main thing as far as Peter’s concerned.

It’s as they’re cleaning up after a successful hour of crafting that Allison lets out a sigh. “I still don’t quite believe this, dad. You barely even date, and now you’re in a throuple?

Stiles fist pumps. “Yesss! I told you, Peter! Throuple!”

Peter narrows his eyes and pokes Stiles in the chest with one finger. “No. I refuse. If we _have_ to call it something, I suppose I’ll tolerate triad.”

Stiles cackles. “Nope. If a teenager uses the term you gotta accept it.” He turns to Allie, gleeful. “Peter doesn’t believe it’s a word.”

Peter pinches the bridge if his nose. “Allison, I beg of you, don’t encourage this madness. He’ll be insufferable otherwise.”

Stiles folds his arms across his chest. “Excuse you, I’m a goddam delight.”

Allison just shakes her head, looking slightly dazed, and asks her dad, “How on earth did you end up with these two? They’re so…” To her credit, she doesn’t continue, but her expression says it all.

“They’re a lot,” Chris agrees. “I’m the sensible one.”

Stiles looks like he’s going to protest, but after a second he nods. “Actually, that’s fair.” His eye sparkle with mischief when he adds, “But I’m the pretty one.”

That startles a laugh out of Allie, and after a second Chris joins in. Peter watches the three of them, and he knows it’s going to be all right. Apparently Allison takes after her unflappable father.

* * *

By the time ten o’clock rolls around, Allison’s completely at ease. They’ve eaten takeout, watched the Princess Bride (Stiles had been delighted when Allie quoted the movie along with him) and played the promised Mariocart. Allison won. Peter might have let her.

She lets out a yawn, and stands. “Is it okay if I head to bed?”

“Of course, honey. You need anything?” Chris asks, standing as well and pulling her into a tight hug.

Allison whispers in his ear, and Chris beams. “Sure thing, baby.”

Her cheeks are slightly pink when she pulls away and heads upstairs, and Peter watches with interest. “What was that?”

Chris lets out a happy sigh. He’s slightly misty eyed as he says,“She wants me to tuck her in.”

Peter and Stiles share a look, one that says _mission accomplished_.

* * *

The weekend flies by. Chris takes Allison to her shooting practice – apparently the talent skipped a generation, because she’s a crack shot, as he tells Peter when they get back.

They go out to lunch, and Allison spends some time in her room on the phone to her friends. Peter hears, “That’s what I said, a threesome, how wild is that?” when he walks past, and smiles to himself.

Allison screws up her face as she pulls out her homework on Saturday evening, but it has to be done before Monday, so she settles in at the table and sets to work. Peter quietly slides her a slice of cake and helps with her English composition. Twenty minutes later Chris guides her through a couple of tricky math problems and feeds her hot chocolate. Stiles doesn’t help in the least, claiming he’s only good for colors of the rainbow and counting to ten, but he does fish around in his bag and provide her with a gold star sticker when she gets it all done in under an hour.

On Sunday Chris takes Allison out to breakfast and then shopping, and they’re gone all morning. Peter takes the opportunity to drag Stiles back to bed, not that there’s much dragging involved really. They’ve been on their best behavior with Allison there, barely touching, and Peter feels the need for some skin on skin contact. Stiles obviously feels then same, and they spend the morning wrapped around each other, touching and stroking and talking nonsense. There’s sex, but it’s the slow, lazy kind, grinding against each other for what feels like hours before either of them can be bothered to take it further.

Eventually their hands get involved, and Peter loves the desperate little gasps he pulls from Stiles as he grips him just right. When Stiles comes it’s loud and messy, and neither of them care. Once he’s recovered, Stiles ducks under the blankets and does wicked things with his tongue, and Peter’s eyes roll up into his head from the heat and suction of Stiles’s mouth. He comes with a low groan, and he can _feel_ Stiles grinning around his cock.

The blankets move and settle as Stiles comes up for air, and when he kisses Peter he can taste himself. They lay there together for a while longer before Stiles breaks the silence. “I guess we should get up. It’d be bad to still be in bed when they get back, right?”

Peter glances at the clock, sees it’s past eleven, and grudgingly admits that Stiles is right. They probably need to move. They slowly make their way out of bed, showering and getting dressed, and their timing’s impeccable because when Chris and Allison come walking in the door not ten minutes later there’s nothing to see but Stiles leaning in and stealing a bite of Peter’s toast.

* * *

Their routine shifts and changes to accommodate Allison’s visits, and Peter doesn’t know whether she just doesn’t mention their living arrangement to her mother at first or whether Victoria’s too intimidated to comment, but it’s another three months before she says a word to Chris, and then it’s just some subtle jab about how he never could make up his mind.

Chris tells them later that he just told her that you can’t have too much of a good thing, and she let the subject drop.

Three months in, Allie asks if she can have a friend stay over. She explains that her mom’s not a fan of sleepovers. Of course, they say yes immediately, and Allie’s bright smile mirrors the one on Chris’s face at being asked.

Kira’s shy and awkward, and when she first arrives she keeps looking between them like she expects them to start making out, but instead Stiles herds them out to the backyard and produces several buckets of throwable paintballs that Peter knows he’s been dying to try.

Peter makes them wait till he’s supplied everyone with old shirts, because he doesn’t care if the label on the paintballs says washable, everyone knows that’s a lie.

They proceed to spend an hour pelting each other, which somehow ends up with them ganging up on Chris, who, it seems, is actually incapable of throwing in a straight line. He wasn’t lying when he said he was a terrible shot, but he doesn’t seem to mind as he’s attacked from all sides, curling up into a ball and begging for mercy. (They make it up to him later, when the girls have gone home, both of them kissing every tiny red mark on his skin, and Stiles riding him just how he likes.)

* * *

It’s almost frightening, how well Allison and Stiles get on. They bond over video games and Marvel movies, over Tumblr and internet memes.

Chris will watch on as they snort over something on Allie’s phone, looking lost when they show him. He’ll whisper to Peter, “Why is that funny? Why is Kermit in a dark hood funny?”

“Keep up, Christopher,” Peter will tell him with an eyeroll. Peter has no clue either, intends to google it later, but Chris doesn’t need to know that.

At first, Allison seems to be under the impression that Stiles is a functioning adult, but a few weekends together soon cure her of that. She watches, fascinated, as he pulls out the couch cushions looking for his phone, while Peter and Chris stand at the door waiting to go out, making no effort to help.

“Aren’t you gonna help him look?”

Peter shakes his head. “Absolutely not. How will he learn otherwise?”

“Besides,” Chris adds with a smirk, “We have a bet going how long it’ll take him to find it. I’ve won the last three times.”

“Oh?” Allison brightens at the prospect. “What’s the prize?”

Which leads to Peter laughing into his fist as he listens to Chris hem and haw, trying not to tell his daughter that the prize is getting to be the roast in a spitroast.

Peter can see the moment Allie catches the implications of what Chris isn’t saying and goes bright red, but thankfully they’re distracted by Stiles yelling, “Found you, you slippery little fucker!” and waving his phone from where he’s found it…in the fridge.

Peter grins. “Looks like I win.”

“How is he so together for some things and such a disaster for others?” Allison asks, gesturing to Stiles and obviously looking for a way to change the subject.

Chris laughs, and grabs the lifeline gratefully. “It’s just how he is. Not that we mind – that’s how we ended up together. Wanna hear the story?”

When she hears the tale, Allison laughs till she can’t breathe.

* * *

Mornings are where their differences are highlighted most starkly.

Peter has a routine. He sits bolt upright at the alarm, and heads into the bathroom, where he takes exactly forty-five minutes to shower and make himself presentable. Once he’s dressed, he heads downstairs for coffee and breakfast, where he normally finds Stiles staring blankly into space as he struggles to cope with the concept of _up_ and _awake._ Stiles actually gets up _earlier_ than Peter, but he claims it takes him at least an hour to be human.

It does, too. By the time Peter’s eaten and brushed his teeth, Stiles is barely ready to shuffle into the bathroom. Peter reads the news while Stiles spends ten minutes showering and attempting to tame his hair, before throwing on some sort of cartoon tee and heading for the door. Experience has taught Peter that at this stage, he needs to grab Stiles by the collar and drag him back, then check his bag to ensure that he has his wallet, phone, charger, keys, and lunch.

The irony of the kindergarten teacher having his backpack checked isn’t lost on either of them, but Stiles had to call Peter because he locked himself out once too often, and Peter point blank refuses to ‘just leave a key under the mat.’

It’s while the bag check’s going on the Chris normally rolls out of bed. And roll is the operative word. He wanders into the bathroom and does his thing, emerging after mere minutes. Then he slides into his work clothes, grabs a protein bar and fills his travel mug from the coffee pot, before giving Peter and Stiles both a peck on the lips as he strides out the door, somehow ready before either of them.

On more than one occasion Stiles and Peter are left staring after him, silent, before one of them says, “…how?”

And then they’ll share their own kiss and leave the house together, shaking their heads at Chris's easy efficiency.

* * *

Peter finally relents three weeks before Christmas, and allows Stiles to bring glitter into the house.

Stiles and his class are making holiday decorations, and as he explains, if he doesn’t do the majority of the prep work beforehand, he’ll be sending kids home with a half-finished project as a gift for their parents, and does Peter _really_ want to disappoint a bunch of five year olds?

After much pleading and a spectacular blowjob, Peter gives in, on the understanding that this is a _one time thing,_ and not so much of a speck of the glistening evil is left behind afterwards. Stiles assures him he’ll keep it in his office, and Peter doesn’t believe him for a second.

Sure enough, when Peter comes in from work the next day Stiles has the plastic spread on the table and row upon row of magazines that he’s cutting to make look like Christmas trees, and there in the middle of it all is the cursed stuff, as well as _gold spray paint._ Peter doesn’t say a word, just folds his arms over his chest and waits.

Stiles has the good grace to look a little sheepish at least. “I mean, it’s not like I can use spray paint around the children, and it’s too cold to do this in the garage, the paint won’t dry,” he defends, and dammit, those are both valid points.

Still, Peter wouldn’t be much of a lawyer if he didn’t make some kind of protest. “And the promise to keep it in your office?”

Stiles ducks his head. “Fun fact. Did you know if you use spray paint in an enclosed space you can get really high really fast?”

Peter looks closer, and he notes that Stiles has a definite flush to his cheeks, and his eyes are slightly glazed. “Do I want to know?”

Stiles squirms under his gaze. “Let’s just say I wouldn’t go in there for a while. This is a bigger space though, enough airflow, so it works okay.” He looks at Peter for a moment, and Peter already knows what’s coming. This won’t be the first time he’s been persuaded to help Stiles out. Sure enough, “I have to make twenty-five of these babies. Be a lot quicker with some help. And you’re good at this stuff.” Stiles makes pleading eyes, and Peter can feel himself starting to weaken.

The thing is, he _is_ good at it. Peter’s craft projects look like they’ve come from the pages of a magazine, when he can be persuaded to help. And part of him enjoys it immensely, although he’d never admit it out loud. It’s oddly soothing, making the raw materials bend to his will. Stiles gets up from the table and tangles a hand in Peter’s tie, pulling him closer, cupping a hand around Peter’s jaw and cradling his face. “Chris is working late again. It we hurry, we could have this finished and be waiting for him when he gets back, take advantage of him.”

Peter does like that idea – Chris has been working a lot of extra hours, and it’s been a while since they ambushed their favorite mechanic. “Well, when you put it like that…just let me get changed.”

He draws Stiles in for a kiss first, slow and sweet, then bolts up the stair to change. “Wear your craft jeans!’ Stiles calls after him. “They make your ass look great!” 

Peter changes into the jeans, a pair so soft and faded they fit him like a second skin. He pairs them with a deep cut v neck in a blue that brings out the color of his eyes. He _refuses_ to call them his craft clothes, never mind that there’s glue on the shirt and a handprint in red paint on one ass cheek, a reminder of exactly how much Stiles liked them the first time he saw Peter wearing them.

It turns out that 25 Christmas trees can be completed by two grown men in a little under an hour, with the proper motivation.

After wiping down the table for the umpteenth time, Peter resigns himself to the fact that he’s never going to get rid of all the stray flecks of glitter. The trees look stunning though, carefully nestled together in two plastic crates ready for school the next morning, and he takes a quiet satisfaction in that.

Besides, it’s worth it for the pleased expression on Chris’s face when he finds himself waylaid by two sets of hands as soon as he sets foot in the door, his work clothes being peeled off him as they drag him upstairs. He nearly trips when Stiles yanks his jeans down, but Peter’s there to steady him, and they hustle him into the bedroom and into bed despite his protests over how filthy he is.

They end up wrecking a perfectly good set of thousand thread count sheets with smears of gold paint, engine grease, and come.

Personally, looking at Chris’s fucked-out smile afterwards, Peter considers it well worth it.

* * *

Peter used to have such a tidy life.

Nobody ever left mugs on the coffee table. Shoes were always taken off at the front door. Craft glue didn’t feature at all. Teenage girls didn’t come over and bring their friends for sleepovers, giggling and making so much noise that even Stiles got to the point of roaring that _if they didn’t shut up he was coming in there._

Once upon a time, if Peter had a blocked drain, he would have just called a plumber. Not that he ever would have _had_ a blocked drain, because there would never have been chunks of playdoh in his sink to start with.

Yet here he is, standing in his dining room, and the scene in front of him is anything but tidy. Looking at his once spotless kitchen he’s greeted with the sight of Stiles sitting on the counter, swinging his legs idly and picking at paint on his arms, while all he can see of Chris is a pair of long legs poking out from under the sink. “What-?” he asks, almost afraid of the answer.

Chris shimmies out, holding the elbow joint. “Sink’s blocked again.”

“It wasn’t me, this time,” Stiles says immediately. He holds his hands up to indicate his innocence. “Chris was making bread and the flour and water turned into a kinda…solid goop.”

“You know, there are professionals for this,” Peter tries, but Chris just raises his eyebrows.

“Why the hell would I pay someone when I can do it myself?” He tips the pipe up and bangs it with the heel of his hand, dislodging a chunk of something disgusting into a dishcloth he has waiting on the floor. Peter supposes he should be glad Chris used the cloth.

Peter takes in the pair of them, his shameless invaders, his partners in crime, and sets down his briefcase. He slips off his shoes, takes off his jacket, hanging it carefully over the back of a chair, and loosens his tie. Then, after a second’s consideration where he calculates speed and angle, he launches himself forward, sliding across the polished floorboards in just his socks, slotting neatly into the vee of Stiles’s legs and pulling him in for a kiss. He closes his eyes and revels in the way Stiles kisses him back, knowing he’s getting water and mess on his suit, and not caring.

He feels Chris’s lean body sliding into place at his back, lets himself be manhandled by his partners as they sandwich him between them, both running their hands over him, Chris untucking his shirt and sliding a broad hand up his ribs as Stiles kisses his throat.

Sometimes, not often, Peter has moments where he misses his old life.

It was spotless. Comfortable. Well ordered.

Lonely.

Chaos, he decides, is far better.


End file.
